


Correspondence

by satalderihannsu



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Coming Out, F/F, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Pen Pals, Queer Character, Trans Female Character, goodomenssecretsanta2020, support and acceptance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:48:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28324089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satalderihannsu/pseuds/satalderihannsu
Summary: Warlock Dowling has kept in touch with his beloved nanny from his childhood. They send each other Christmas cards every year. This year, however, contains a longer note than usual.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley & Warlock Dowling, Aziraphale & Warlock Dowling, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Warlock Dowling
Comments: 2
Kudos: 98





	Correspondence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [btab66](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=btab66).



> This fic is a gift for Tumblr user [@btab66](https://btab66.tumblr.com/) as part of the [#GoodOmensSecretSanta2020](https://www.tumblr.com/search/goodomenssecretsanta2020)! I hope this gives you as much joy as I had in writing it! Happy holidays, m'dear!
> 
> Thanks to [@mabsgatos](https://mabsgatos.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr for organizing a fun exchange!

Warlock pushed a lock of long, blue-dyed hair behind his ear and tapped the pen against the table. He stared into the dark grey emptiness with hope and horror, mixed in new and exciting stirrings. How could he even begin to write this?

Oh, it was all too much. She would probably berate him. She might even tell him he was wrong, or just imagining it.

But…

But it would still be better than father. And he had a feeling that mother would just blink at him and tell him that he’d be sent to a different school. One with mixed genders.

The fact was, she was the only person he could turn to, or had ever turned to, for anything like this. Unconsciously, he furrowed his brow in the same way that his nanny’s had when he was a kid. He sighed again, and forced himself to press pen to paper.

***

It was Christmas Eve when the door to A.Z. Fell and Co. blasted open with the force of wintry winds, and a loud, cheerful (and perhaps drunken) “Hahahoho!” Aziraphale grimaced at the crass behavior. It was obvious who had come to visit, of course. He’d honestly expected him earlier. Without meaning to, he shivered at the cold wrapping itself around his ankles as it rolled into the shop.

“Don’t forget to close the door, dear!”

“Hahoho!” came the response, along with a slammed door.

Aziraphale turned to greet his intruder (“intruder” in the sense that, of course, the shop had been closed for hours). “Are you quite finished?”

Crowley dropped a number of packages on the front desk. “Picked up your mail,” he said. Then, by way of answer, “And nowhere  _ near _ finished, angel. Just beginning.” There was a small silver bell attached to Crowley’s top buttonhole, giving an obnoxious little tinkle to his every move.

Aziraphale grimaced in a way that he hoped conveyed “I do love you, and am glad to see you, but I do wish you weren’t here quite so  _ loudly _ .” What he said instead was, “Oh. Thank you. Beginning?”

“Celebrating!” he said. “‘S Christmas!” Aziraphale blinked as the calculations moved forward to the inevitable knowledge. Before he could speak, Crowley thrust a large bottle toward him. Around the neck of it was a slightly sloppy white ribbon tied in a bow. The paper on the neck had been torn open, and the cork obviously popped previously. Aziraphale read the label: a Dom Pérignon 2004 Brut Rosé. Crowley, following his eyes, said, “Had to test it, make sure it was worthy of your most excellent taste.” Then Crowley turned on his heel and shuffled some more pieces of paper.

Aziraphale, stunned, said, “You’re sending cards?”

“Hmm?” Crowley looked over his shoulder. “Oh, no, just reading my mail.”

“You get mail?”

“Yeah. You know, mail? I do get mail. Don’t you?”

Aziraphale finally gave into the smile. “Well, yes. I just sort of assumed you had banished the printed word from your life ages ago, and that everything was electronic mail for you these days.” He fetched two crystal stem glasses for them, a few biscuits, as well as some crackers and caviar. When he returned, Crowley had already cozied up in his preferred position on the settee. He was industriously looking through his letters, of which, Aziraphale was rather pleased to note, appeared to be several. Some opened items beside Crowley were festively-colored cards. But the item that had caught Crowley’s attention at this point was a series of lined papers, torn from a commercial notebook, with cramped hand-writing in purple pen. Aziraphale poured the first glasses*.

> *or, rather, the second and third glasses.

Crowley had quieted entirely, and was very still. Aziraphale politely waited, though who was in such deep correspondence with Crowley had quickly become the most pressing question for him.

After a few more moments, Crowley said quietly, “Shiii- _ iiiiiit _ .

Aziraphale looked down into his glass. “Something wrong, dear?” he asked, mostly into the drink.

“Oh, that boy…” Crowley murmured again, this time affecting a voice somewhat more prim, tight, and yet feminine. He flicked his eyes up toward Aziraphale. “The boy. You know,  _ the  _ boy. Not  _ the  _ the boy, but the one we…”

The realization hit Aziraphale as a well-aimed brick through the window of his soul. “Oh.  _ Oh! _ ” He honestly hadn’t thought about those ten strange years in, well, about…?

“Eight years, this boy has kept in touch. And now he springs this.” Crowley turned the papers over in his hands: not reading, but examining each side for… something.

Aziraphale handed the second* glass to Crowley, who accepted it gladly. The demon downed it in one go, then handed the glass back expectantly. Aziraphale complied.

> *third

After a few more quiet moments, Aziraphale hazarded the question. “Crowley…?” he asked, and it was enough to convey his query. After all, it was really too obvious. Crowley handed the papers over.

> _ Dear Nanny A.: _
> 
> _ Happy Christmas! It’s me again. I hope you’re having a good Christmas. I think this will get to you at Christmas. Anyway, I hope you have a happy one. _

Aziraphale identified the writing as that of one who doesn’t want to write the actual thing they want to write. He skipped a bit further down.

> _Well, okay, here goes. I don’t really know how to say it, so I’m just going to say it. I am_ ~~ _ga_~~ ~~_hom_~~ ~~ _maybe_~~ ~~ _bi_~~ ~~ _gay_~~ _queer? I think? I know maybe that this isn’t what should be in a Christmas card, I’m sorry. And maybe you hate me now, but I didn’t know what else to do, and father is going to hate me now I’m sure of it._

Aziraphale felt a warm flutter in his heart. The sweet, dear boy, so vulnerable and so honest. Scared, but brave! He felt a soft, tender smile breaching his face.

> _ It’s not just that he’s a  _ ~~_ he _ ~~ __ ~~_ boy _ ~~ __ ~~_ gentlem _ ~~ __ ~~_ man _ ~~ _ another boy. You see,  _ _ he’s a _ _ his parents are  _ progressives _. It’s kind of like that Shake Speare thing,  _ Rome and Juliet _. We’re lovers acrost stars! Well, not lovers yet, exactly. I mean… _

Young Warlock continued on for a bit, but, at last:

> _...and you see why I just had to tell you. What should I do? I hope that you’re having a good Christmas. I miss you. Hope you’re keeping well with Brother Francis. _
> 
> _ Well, bye! _
> 
> _ Warlock. _

Aziraphale looked over to Crowley, who was pouting into his glass. “I didn’t know you’d kept in touch with the boy.”

Crowley shrugged. “It’s not much. But I couldn’t just suddenly disappear out of his life. It would be weird for a nanny of ten years to never write. It’s just birthdays and holidays.”

Aziraphale’s grin fully bloomed. “That’s… so… dear!” His voice cracked with the shape of his smile. “You know, I’m a tiny bit jealous. I do miss the evil little brat.”

Crowley tsked. “Not that evil. Only about half evil, by my reckoning.”

Aziraphale gave a soft smile of acknowledgement. “Well, what are you going to do?”

Crowley looked over with confusion. “Eh? Oh, nothing, I think. He’ll figure himself out like the rest of them, won’t he?”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “You’ve kept a steady stream of reassuring letters and contact for eight years, and you helped raise him from a baby. You’re practically his mother. Mother figure, anyway.”

Crowley pitched his voice soft again. “You think I’m motherly?”

“Whatever I do think, I think that he’s wished you well  _ with _ me.” He tapped the top of the page. “Wouldn’t you like to go see him again?”

Crowley tilted his head back. “Ohhh…. I dunno.” He faced Aziraphale, but indeed, the expression was terribly, terribly serious. He sipped again, tasting the subtle spice. “You’re serious?” Aziraphale nodded, and settled down into his preferred chair.

“We could. Inviting a young man to London for a weekend in the semester break is a tradition as old as Londinium herself.”

Crowley stared up into the domed ceiling, the gears muzilly-crustily grinding along. “I suppose we could. If  _ you _ want you, I mean.”

Aziraphale twisted a little in joy. “Oh, now that  _ is _ wonderful. Visiting for Christmas!”

Crowley turned to face his friend. “But if it’s truly to be a Christmas miracle… I want you to do something with me.”

Aziraphale clapped his hands together. “Oh, certainly.” The warmth of getting to see his… nephew??? filled him utterly.

“Good, good to hear. After all, we want to be  _ completely  _ supportive, don’t we?”

Aziraphale heard it then, the particular pitch that indicated that perhaps he might have made a poor choice in agreeing to something without entirely knowing to what he actually was agreeing. “Well, I mean, yessss?”

“Lovely. I’ll write the lad a letter. Now, a toast, what do you say?”

***

It was Boxing Day when a letter arrived for Warlock Dowling. The envelope was dimly scented of musk and roses, familiar and comforting. Warlock was trembling as he turned it over and slit open the envelope with one long and painted nail.

What would she say? He could almost hear it.  _ “You should consider straightening out right away. It’s not prudent, it’s not useful, and no one will fear you if you’re…” _

Warlock’s hands shook a little as he removed the fine cotton paper from the envelope. He unfolded the single sheet and read:

> _ Warlock: _
> 
> _ Merry Christmas. _
> 
> _ Francine says you should come visit this break. You’ll find the address and a train ticket enclosed. See you on Thursday. _
> 
> _ -A. _

Warlock read it again several times, mouthing over the words. “...train ticket… Thursday?”

She hadn’t given him much chance to decide! Although, this didn’t exactly read like a request, did it? Warlock grinned a bit. But then there was that one bit of the letter that didn’t make all the most sense. After all, it wasn’t like Nanny to make mistakes.

***

One the first Thursday after Christmas, a young man in layers of fashionable bits of black, stripes, and neon stepped onto the platform. Just outside the gates stood two familiar faces, one a bit more familiar than the other.

“Nanny!” he cried excitedly, before catching himself with the self-awareness of teenagers throughout the ages.

Nanny didn’t smile, but inclined her head in a way that was still, somehow, very comforting.

The… person beside her, however, took Warlock by substantial surprise. He stared, outright. The other person leaned forward, smiling brightly with broad front teeth, and, with a light lisp said, “It’s rude to stare, dear, but I completely understand. But you won’t be too upset with your Auntie Francine, will you?” The person, Francine, chuckled a bit.

Francine was indeed very familiar. And it only took Warlock a moment to understand. Francine had bright, fluffy white hair, a broad, rosy smile, and a thick, but softened, form. She wore plain browns, but they were certainly a bit more tailored than the last time they’d met.

“Francis-ne?” said Warlock.

“Oh, c’mhere!” She wrapped Warlock in a grand hug, and the hug was as he’d remembered exactly. She was warm, and full of goodness. Nanny even gave a half-quirk of a grin. She put her gloved hand on Francine’s shoulder, and tut-tutted gently. “I don’t suppose you’d let the boy breathe, dear?”

Francine laughed loudly and without any trace of self-awareness. And then, Francine kissed Nanny’s cheek!

Warlock continued to stare, but had a large, stupid grin on his face. He somehow forgot to be self-conscious about this.

“Now, I am supposing that you have a couple of pointed questions, but those will have to wait. Permanently.” Nanny glowered through her dark spectacles. “But, as you seemed distressed in your letter, we decided that you needed to get away from that house for a bit. See life in the city with people who-”

Francine interrupted enthusiastically, “People who completely understand you! Oh, it’s so good to see you! I can’t believe that you and Ash have been corresponding right under my nose! You can bet your boots I’m going to be sending you letters all the time now!” Francine effortlessly hefted Warlock’s suitcase, and forcefully steered him toward the exit of the train station.

And Warlock did feel… entirely at home. Between the warmth of the two women (and yes, he realized, they were both women, even Francine, and together,  _ that way _ , and everything!), he instantly felt the nervous chittering of his worries drain out on the platform. He’d still have to figure out how to talk to his father, but, well, he’d never known how to talk to him about anything, so this was really just another iteration of all previous conversations.

Nanny Ashtoreth opened the front passenger door of her incredible car. “Family gets shotgun,” she said.

Francine loaded the suitcase and obligingly pulled herself into the back. Once underway, she piped up: “I’m famished. Why don’t we take Warlock to one of the places we like so much in Soho?”

Warlock’s eyes bugged out of his head. He knew all about Soho. From  _ Googling _ .

Nanny A. looked at the two of them and huffed. “You’re both too much. Why can’t I resist your temptations?” She turned onto the appropriate exit ramp, secretly quite glad for the all-too-cheery company. She hated to say it, but she had really missed the little bugger.

For her part, Francine felt an incredible swelling of love, but no matter how far they drove, it never dimmed.

END.


End file.
